


You Are Everything

by scienceofdeducjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7417333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceofdeducjohn/pseuds/scienceofdeducjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why he had begged John to come to this family do yesterday, he suddenly couldn't remember. Still, it had been his only option since they were all under the illusion that John was his boyfriend. It hadn't been his fault, he'd told himself over and over. He'd simply never corrected them when they assumed that they were a couple.</p>
<p>---<br/>Or:  Sherlock and John pretend to be a couple at a Holmes family party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic. It's not beta-ed, but I hope you like it!

“Right then. If we're doing this, we're doing this right.”

Sherlock almost jumped when he felt John's arm wrap around his waist, warm fingers lightly pressed against his coat. He could only just stop himself from gasping aloud as electricity seemed to trickle through the fabric. Staring down at the hand John had laid on his side, he swallowed. Then John coughed, and his head snapped up to the doorstep, where a middle-aged woman stood watching them curiously. 

“Sherlock! Look at you, so much healthier than the last time I saw you.” 

She beamed at him, then at John. “Is this your boyfriends doing? I must say, John – can I call you John? – we all love your stories, and we're so glad you two have finally become...” she paused, wringing her hands, “an... item. Oh, Sherlock only ever seems to talk about you when he's here, I-”

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly before she could say anything else, a blush spreading rapidly over his cheeks as he heard John unsuccessfully trying to stifle a laugh. 

“Yes, um well. I'm glad you're... glad, aunt Melanie. I can assure you that we ourselves were... we were obviously delighted, and.” He tugged at his collar nervously, swallowed hard. “Well.”

Why he had begged John to come to this family do yesterday, he suddenly couldn't remember. Still, it had been his only option since they were all under the illusion that John was his boyfriend. It hadn't been his fault, he'd told himself over and over. He'd simply never corrected them when they assumed that they were a couple. So if one day he realised he quite liked it and started playing along, it wasn't exactly like he was lying to them, was it? He even had a carefully constructed plan prepared for all the questions they might ask him. Yet, every time he told someone proudly how he'd found out John was in love with him, or how their first date had been, Mycroft had lifted an eyebrow, knowingly, and glared warningly at him. Sherlock had tried to glare back as defying as he could, romanticizing the whole story just to spite his brother. He reveled in the warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach, in the heat of a blush as he proudly proclaimed to his cousin that he had a boyfriend and he was a soldier and a doctor, and he loved him very much. Still, he had to admit that it had also made his unrequited love so much harder to bear. He lost himself in daydreams, sometimes, as he peered into a microscope or stared out of the window. He thought of John, touching him and kissing him, and more. He'd given it much thought, and had determined that John would initiate their first kiss, hands warm against his neck, pulling him down, and it would start as a chaste brush of lips, then – 

“Sherlock?” John's voice. John was smiling politely at his aunt, eyeing him questioningly. Sherlock knew doctor-mode had been activated, and he would ask him if he was alright as soon as they were alone.

“Right. Shall we come in, then?” His voice sounded steadier and less embarrassed than he felt, and as Melanie stepped out of the way to let them through, he moved forward, causing John's arm to fall off of his waist. He mourned the loss of touch immediately, but John's hand came up again to briefly rest against the small of his back, urging him forward.

 

Melanie had quickly disappeared into the living room to talk to the guests, leaving them alone as they took off their coats. Then John faced him, sighing. 

“Are you alright? You seemed a bit... distracted just now.” He looked worried, the lines in his forehead creased in wonder, his lip pressed together in a thin line. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn't it be?” He tried to sound casual, failed completely, and ended up cringing internally at his small voice. Looking down at his feet, he took a deep breath.

“Listen, John, I'm sorry I'm putting you in this situation. I shouldn't have pushed you into all this, it was unfair of me, and I would understand if you want to go home -”

“Hey, hey stop, Sherlock.” John interrupted him, using his stern soldier voice. “I'm a grown man and I can make my own decisions. Alright? Now, you asked me for a favour and I said I wouldn't mind. Besides, you talk so little about your family – I didn't even know your parents were alive until a year ago, for heaven's sake – that I'm... well, to be honest, I'm kind of curious to find out more tonight.”

Sherlock looked up, locking eyes with John. Did John really mean this? Surely he'd only conceded to Sherlock's plan in order to avoid any unnecessary bickering. His thoughts started racing as he considered the possibility for a moment, popping up like a small bubble of hope that he did his best not to shatter immediately. 

“Really?”

John's eyes softened, and he gave him a small smile that inflated the bubble.

“Really. Now let's go and convince them we're a couple.”

Sherlock felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his gut twisting in a painfully bittersweet way. Had John said that? What did it mean? Did he want to know Sherlock better even if seldom asked him about his childhood, his past, himself? Did he want to know him as a friend, or more? Repressing that last thought, he snapped out of the dark part of his brain and forced himself to focus on the immediate present. Perhaps this would actually succeed, perhaps they would actually be believable as a couple. Perhaps his family would actually be convinced John wanted someone like him.

Stepping forward, he tugged John's arm around his waist again in a sudden wave of boldness. He smirked. “Then let's make it convincing.”

John giggled, giving his waist a soft squeeze. 

“Let's do that, love.”

Sherlock's gut did that twist again, and he felt his cheeks redden somewhat. Trying for a smile, he ended up with what must have looked like a pained grimace. 

“Yes,” He replied, awkwardly, before allowing himself to be tugged to the door leading into the next room.

 

The living room was fairly large – at least five times the size of their own living room, and filled with people. At its far end hung a huge portrait of a posh-looking older man under a lit fireplace. Tall windows on the right hand side on either side of the painting let in sunlight, making the room light and airy, the heavy curtains pushed to the sides. Sherlock spotted Mycroft leaning with his elbow on the mantlepiece above the fireplace, thanking the heavens that he seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with Lestrade.

By the oak table in front of the pair, he saw Mummy cutting a conversation short with Uncle Jabez Wilson, who had thusfar remained oblivious of the hate their family felt regarding his conservative manners. She smiled at Sherlock, and started to make her way to them before he could turn around. 

Sherlock sighed. “John, there's Mummy at twelve o'clock. She's going to want to talk to us about... well. About us, I'm afraid. I advise you to let me do the talking and we'll -” 

“Sherlock, I swear to god, I may not be as brilliant as you, but I'm not that stupid. Hey,” Sherlock felt him grabbing his elbow, which had fallen off his waist for a moment, to grab his attention. He looked at him, at his deep-blue eyes, and marveled once again at the sheer beauty of them. John's voice was quieter now, and he spoke in that soft tone that made him feel like a warm blanket was being wrapped around him.

“This is going to work. Okay? Just let me play the part, and we'll pull it off.”

He gave John a small, nervous smile before urgently whispering, “Yes, but we'll need to convince Mycroft... we'll never manage that, he sees everything, John. Everything.” He gestured wildly with his hands to drive the point home while John gave him a reassuring look.

“Listen, Sherlock. We'll get through this. As long as you try to open up a bit. You say you need them to believe this, right? You just need to... well.” He swallowed, looking a bit uncomfortable. “You need to act like you're not afraid to touch me.” His words sounded small, secret, strange from his lips. “Not anything you're not comfortable with, but just... Just put your arm around me. Or take my hand.” 

John offered his hand. Sherlock took it, lightly, and John squeezed it a bit.

“You alright?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I'm fine. It's just, I-” He took a deep breath around the butterflies in his chest and met John's eyes. “Thank you.”

Hand in hand, John pulled him toward the sofa so they could sit down and avoid the many onlookers as much as possible. They were stopped short by a very enthusiastic aunt Meggie, however. Sherlock felt his heart plummet as he remembered all the stories he'd told her about them. 

“Oh if it isn't Sherlock and John! I've heard so much about you, you know.”

Aunt Meggie gave John a not so subtle once-over, and shook his hand vehemently, her gold bracelets rattling around her thin arm. 

He nodded at her, “Aunt Meggie. May I introduce you to-” He started, but was interrupted.

“Yes of course, I know, this is your boyfriend. I recognized him immediately you know, from all your stories.”

John looked like he was very much repressing a giggle again, the corners of his mouth pulled upwards in a wide smile. “Really?” He gave Sherlock a teasing look as he leaned his body toward him. Sherlock disentangled their intertwined fingers to wrap his arm around John's waist as he remembered John's advice. It felt nice, comfortable. 

“Well, not that often and detailed, I mean I occasionally may have mentioned you but-” 

“Oh yes, you're his favourite topic of conversation, you know,” She smiled deviously at Sherlock, then looked at John, and lowering her voice, she said “I must admit that you're just as handsome as he described”. Sherlock decided this was the end of the conversation, blushing at the words of his aunt. He stammered an apology before dragging John away. 

“I'm so sorry for that, I-” he whispered, glancing at John. He looked rather attractive with that little half smile and those twinkling eyes. His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lips, and Sherlock imagined what else that tongue could do, his breath hitching. He imagined feeling it on his lips, licking his throat, making its way down and down until-

“Handsome?” Sherlock was shaken out of his thoughts that were rapidly spinning out of control by John's hushed voice.

“S-Sorry what?” 

“You told her about how handsome I was?”

Sherlock looked away. “Well, she did ask me what you looked like.”

John ducked his head, that smile still on his lips. “I guess I can't argue with that. Now come on, let's go sit down before anyone else can attack us with more questions.” 

Sherlock pulled him to the sofa. “Is all of your family so invasive?” John asked as he sat down.

Sherlock grimaced. “Oh, you've only seen the tip of the iceberg. I'm afraid dinner will be even more awful. You should have seen the time Mycroft brought home his ex-boyfriend two years ago-” 

“Hang on-” John interrupted before Sherlock could go on. “Mycroft's gay?” 

It was all Sherlock could do to stop himself from bursting out in laughter. His face must've been comically contorted in his efforts, because suddenly John was giggling. His chest shaking, his beautiful face all smiles, and Sherlock couldn't hold it in any longer. Waves of laughter bubbled up in him and spilled out until he was heaving, and they were gasping for breath in unison. “

You- you-” Sherlock gasped, “Mycroft- My- he's- so-” The guests stared at them, but he couldn't bring himself to care because here was John giggling and asking ridiculous questions. Amazing, astonishing John. 

When they were back to normal again, taking deep breaths in and out, wiping away their tears, he said, “Um yes. God, I can't believe you didn't know that! Mycroft is the epitome of gay.” 

That earned him another giggle from John. “I mean he would probably say the same about me, but you get the point.” He blurted out. Realizing what he'd said, though, his heart sprang to his throat, and when he met John's eyes he saw them fixed on his. He swallowed. For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension was so palpable it almost hurt, John holding his gaze. But then John's lips moved into a smile, and his eyes crinkled and he looked fond, of all things.

“Thank you.” Not much louder than a whisper. John looked shocked when he said that, and his expression shifted instantly to a neutral one. He averted his eyes.

Something panged high in Sherlock's chest. “What for?” He asked.

“It's... nothing.”

He wanted to reach out and comfort John, hold him close and stroke his hair and brush his lips against his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. He wanted to feel his skin under his hands, he wanted to tell him it would be alright and that he loved him. Because he did love him, so unspeakably much. 

And it hurt that all he could bring himself to do was to lay his hand on John's knee, squeeze it lightly. When he dared look up at John, he was looking back at him again, giving him a small smile which Sherlock failed in trying to match. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “John-”

He was cut off before he could say anything else. “Sherlock, there you are! And John Watson!” Annoyed, Sherlock turned his head. His father was standing in front of them, sipping at the whiskey in his glass. He put his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder briefly before holding out his hand for John to shake.

“Oh hello,” John shook the offered hand, “yes, thank you for inviting me.” He sounded a bit disoriented.

“It's so nice to finally have you here.” He looked from John to Sherlock to John again, and took another sip. “You know, I'd love to talk to you properly but I believe dinner's about to be served. Are you two coming?”

“We'll be right there,” Sherlock waved him off, irritated. The people had indeed slowly migrated towards the dining room, and when his father had left, Sherlock found that he and John were the only ones left in the living room.

“So,” said, John, looking around the room, his eyes wandering and his brow pulled up, “that was all very...”

Sherlock grimaced and filled in, “Intense?”

John snorted. “Yes,” 

Sherlock chuckled. “We should probably go, they're waiting for us.” He stood up, smoothing out his jacket, and held out a hand for John. 

“I'm not that old.” John laughed, but took it anyway. It felt rough and warm and calloused and Sherlock wished he never had to let go of John's hand and he wished he never had to let go of this electric bliss that he felt whenever he got to touch him. It was only when he felt John squeeze his hand that he realized he was still standing there, in front of the couch, holding John's hand and staring at the mesmerizing human being that was his pretend boyfriend. 

He took in a sharp breath. “I- I'm sorry, I was just,” He flailed his other hand in the air, shaking his head. 

“No, it's. It's fine.” John looked down nervously at their hands, smirking, before taking his other hand, too. Sherlock regretted the gasp that escaped his lips at the touch. There was that fuzzy feeling high in his chest again, fluttering and funny. It seemed to grow impossibly bigger when John beamed up at him, and he may or may not have forgotten to breathe.

Sherlock silently begged John to say something, because his mind had never been so clouded and impermeable and slow, and all he could force out was a soft “John” under his breath.

“I just. I want to thank you.” He paused for a moment, the careful search for his next words written all over his face. John looked more serious now, not at all angry but more calm, content, though a little... afraid? Sherlock could relate to that all too much; the air between them hung heavy with anticipation.

“John...”

“No- it's... I mean it. Okay?” John took another deep breath, glaring at his feet before meeting his eyes again. “Hm.” He nodded to himself. “Yes. You- Thank you for bringing me here, for... For wanting me in your life.”

A wave of affection crashed over Sherlock as he took in the implication of those words. John was thanking Sherlock for wanting him in his life. For giving him a life, at a time in his life where he had never expected to think of his life as it being worth living. He was thanking Sherlock for saving him. And Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than to tell him that it was supposed to be the other way around, because John deserved this but he deserved so much more than just him. It was all so much and so intense, an overwhelming urge to hold John took a hold of him.

He finally managed to pull at John's hands until he was leaning against him, until Sherlock could hold him close against his own body. He felt John wrapping his arms tightly against his back. A shudder exited John's chest, and he felt him relax in Sherlock's arms. “Thank you so much, Sherlock.” He whispered in between stuttering breaths.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's shoulders. “Don't, John. Just Don't. You are- everything.” 

The warmth of John's breath against his neck made him shiver, the hand soothingly stroking his curls was honestly the best feeling Sherlock had ever felt; he catalogued it quickly in his mindpalace for further inspection.

“Do you really think so?” John whispered back.

Sherlock let out a breath as he realized the truth of his words. “Yes.”

They stood there for a long moment, feeling the other against them, breathing in and out and in and out.

 

Dinner was dreadful, but at least Sherlock got to sit next to John. The guests talked politics most of the time. After the third course, though, a comfortable silence fell that was broken quickly by Mycroft.

“John, I want to congratulate you. I must say I'm glad you two have finally sorted things out.”

John nodded. “Thank you. Yes, we're very happy together.”

“I can imagine.” Mycroft smiled smugly. “Reading your stories, I admit we have all seen this coming for quite a while-”

“Mycroft-” Sherlock snapped. John just put his hand on Sherlock's thigh, rubbing it reassuringly, causing the air to be sucked out of his lungs. He fought to push down the warm, coiling sensation in his lower abdomen as the sound got drowned out by that single feeling. John's finger's on his thigh. Rubbing smoothly, circling, warm and soft. 

 

“-dessert?” The sound of his mother's voice managed to puncture through his thoughts. Sherlock found himself looking at his thigh intensely, a blush on his cheeks, John obliviously in conversation with Lestrade next to him. 

A bowl of ice-cream was pushed towards him, and he took a spoonful to distract himself from his treacherous mind.

“You know the guys at the met had made bets. On the exact date you finally got together, I mean.” Sherlock heard John huffing out a laugh at Lestrade's words. 

“Really? So tell me, who won?”

“Well,” Sherlock caught a glimpse of Lestrade smirking, “actually no-one did. We had all picked a date way too late. The closest was Sally, who said november last year.”

“I gotta give you credit, though. I mean we never even thought it was going to happen ourselves.” John took a bite of his chocolate ice cream. 

Lestrade just shook his head. “For a genius you'd think he'd have it figured out immediately.”

Sherlock couldn't help the affronted sound he made, and made a face at Lestrade, who was too busy with his dessert to notice him. John huffed, but it came out strangled and confused. “What?” 

“Well, you weren't exactly subtle, John.” Lestrade fixed him with a look. “It took me no less than one day to see it. I mean at the crime scene? That look you gave him?” He gestured at Sherlock.

John averted his eyes and laughed. “That obvious, eh?” 

Sherlock looked away quickly, focusing all his energy on the bowl in front of him. He'd suspected, of course, but he'd never been sure. Studying his spoon, he wondered if John was telling the truth. Could it be...? If Lestrade was so convinced, there may be some truth in it. Although he had often made the man out to be an idiot, he knew full well he was one of the most perceptive detectives in Scotland Yard.

John took away his hand. Sherlock scraped out the bowl and pushed his thoughts away for the hundredth time this evening.

 

After dinner most of the guests walked back to the living room. Crossing the hall, shoulders bumping into each other and hands brushing, Sherlock said, “I used to live here, you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, this used to be my parent's home. When Mycroft and I moved out, they bought a smaller place.” Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's.

“Really? So this is where little Sherlock grew up...” He teased. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, yes it is.”

John looked curiously content, shoulders relaxed and eyes bright, the corners of his lips turned upwards. He saw John's eyes shoot down at his lips, and up again.

“I can't imagine what it must be like in such an enormous house. God knows I would have loved it here. And it would have given my mother some rest what with me flying around the living room all the time.” John laughed.

“You know, I never really thought about that. I spent most of my time holed up in my room upstairs, doing research.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yes, it's just up these stairs.” Sherlock waved his hand at the stair case further down the hall.

“Can I see?” 

Shelock was surprised at this question. Why would John care about his old room? But he nodded, a quick jerk with his head, and led John towards the stairs. “This way.” 

They walked in silence, John close enough to occasionally lean against his side. As a result, the nervously fluttering butterflies in his chest reminded him of their presence.

 

Opening the door to his childhood bedroom, Sherlock wasn't surprised to see much had changed. His old bed still stood against the wall on his right hand with the same nightstand beside it; but a large oak desk had been placed under the window opposite the door, next to an old rocking chair. It didn't take much to figure out that this space had been transformed into a guest room. Against all logic, though, it all felt very unnatural without his microscope, his beekeeping books, his closet where that old pirate uniform lay tucked away beneath stacks of jackets and shirts and jeans.

“So this is where you lived?” John moved to stand in the middle of the room, having let go of Sherlock's hand. He sat down at the bed, and looked at him. He was smiling. He looked content. Sherlock filed away this moment, this exact moment with John in his room, smiling at him, in his mind palace to revisit whenever he needed it. 

“Yes. I was better at decorating than aunt Meggie, though. Just look at this wallpaper.”

John laughed. Sherlock stood still in the middle of the room, glanced out of the window. It was almost dark out, the sky a mix of red and orange bleeding into each other. He turned his head to John again; strikingly beautiful in the light of the setting sun. 

John reached out his hand. “Come sit.” Sherlock took it, and let himself be pulled down on the bed. They sat so close to each other that Sherlock felt John's body warmth on his, their joined hands lay neatly between them. As he was thinking very hard of what to say, John spoke.

“You know, I meant it,” he began softly, meeting Sherlock's eyes. He was breathing hard. “What I said earlier, before dinner.” 

Sherlock just looked at him, felt so much, so much love and sorrow, but he didn't know how to convey that jumble of emotions. So instead he just said, “John.” Because now he knew. “I know.” he added.

John nodded, blinking a few times.

“And...” Sherlock paused, gathering the courage to force the words out. It felt like something was tightly wound around his chest, preventing him to breathe. “I meant it too, John. You are everything. You-” He looked away, his voice sounding raw and strange to his own ears when he continued, “you saved me.”

John was gently rubbing his hand with his thumb, and when he looked back up, found him watching him intently. Sherlock's heart beat so loud he was amazed John didn't comment on the sound, and it skipped a beat when John scooted closer, placing their hands on his thigh. A fuzzy coiling in his chest caused his cheeks to flush, as their bodies were joined shoulder to knee. John let go of Sherlock's hand.

“Sherlock,” He whispered, cupping his flushed cheek with his palm. He was smiling again, and Sherlock had never wanted John to kiss him more than in this moment. 

And he did. All of the sudden, John was _kissing_ him. John was kissing _him_.

A light brush of lips, chaste and nervous. Sherlock brought a hand up to hold on to the nape of John's neck. John deepened the kiss a little, capturing Sherlock's bottom lip, and Sherlock wasn't sure if that soft moan came from John or himself, because John was kissing him. His lips were dry and tasted like wine and chocolate ice cream, and it was so much better than he'd imagined. They sat there for what felt like way too short a time, pressed together and contorting their necks to kiss, in utter silence. Until John suddenly broke away, breathing hard, and he wanted to kiss him more, dammit why was John moving away.

A moment of silence. Then, John chuckled, “Okay. So that happened.” 

Sherlock reluctantly leaned back from John. “Yes.” He said, still in disbelief. “It was... good. Very good.” He touched his tingling lips with his fingertips, memorizing the feeling. 

“Try bloody spectacular.” John laughed, rubbing his neck. 

“I think...” 

“Hmm?” John said, meeting his eyes.

“We should do it again.”

John grinned, and pulled him in for another kiss. Sherlock leaned in all too willingly, letting John take the lead and relaxing into the kiss. 

 

“You're an amazing kisser.” Sherlock told him, when they were reluctantly making their way back to join the rest of the family in the living room. 

“I know.” John squeezed his hand. “But you're not so bad yourself.” 

Sherlock huffed, faking offense. “'Not so bad'? Really? I'm quite good at it, thank you.” 

“Oh yeah?” The fond smile John gave him made him puff out his chest. “You'll have to prove that to me. See, I can't remember what with me having an average mind and all.”

Sherlock couldn't hold back a grin. “That won't be a problem, doctor.” 

John said, “Shut up and kiss me.”

And he did.


End file.
